Free!

Last night I was minding my own business driving through town after having taken some cash from the ATM machine, my phone was bleeping as usual with WhatsApp messages.  I stopped briefly to buy a few bits from a Mauritanian corner shop and noticed my Swedish journalist friend had sent me some photos (of documents) with a message 'Is this your Italian?'

I glanced at the document whilst getting back into the car, tired and wondering about which Italian friend in the cryptic message.  Then the name 'Nicola' jumped out at me, I pulled the car over admist angry taxi drivers hooting and read it a bit more closely.  I also saw Sophie Petronin's name, a name I remember well, she was kidnapped from Gao whilst I was in Nouakchott, 24th December 2016 about to take the Route d'Espoir to Mali in a previous blog

Going back to February 2019 someone contacted me as the founder of the social media group 'West Africa Travellers' to ask if I had an Italian cyclist in the group or in our WhatsApp group.  Not to my knowledge but I asked in the group to check.  I was then told this tricycle riding Italian had gone AWOL a day or so before.  Not of great concern, when travelling that slowly you can find yourself out of mobile phone range, until I was informed he had been last heard of in Douentza, Mali.  This started ringing alarm bells being in a jihadi area and on a tricycle as a European he would stick out like a sore thumb.

I started making enquiries via various friends and contacts in Mali and with security people in the sub-region to ask what had been heard.  In most cases no one realised he was missing! Nothing!  I then asked a friend to call Douentza, we knew that the Gendarmerie had picked him up and given him a cell on the night of 2/3rd February but then bizarrely let him loose when a month or two before a Japanese tourist found on a barge at Mopti heading for Timbuktu had been hastily taken back to Bamako!  The night of 3rd February I had it confirmed by friends he had stayed at the campsite in Douentza. 

Last known online time was at 0906 local on 4th February, other travellers started sending me screenshots of their conversations with him. No one had a time after that.  I was spending hours translating Italian so I could understand some of his conversations with his Italian childhood friend who made contact with me, I'll call the friend 'P' for now.   Nicola had taken a screenshot of a map and said he was going up the road to Timbuktu, a road so dangerous not even my Malian friend in telecoms will attempt.  There was also a message to another traveller that he was possibly looking to go to Timbuktu via the main road at Konna. It looked bleak for him either way. P had no knowledge of West Africa but was in touch with Nicola's wife and son in South America as well as his mother in Italy.  We worked through many theories which the family were told about.  The Italian government wanted his disappearance to be kept quiet, the family wanted this respected, hence my journalist friend knew only that I knew of a missing Italian when some of the story broke this year!

I called an aviation friend in the UN who put me in touch with the then Italian commander in Timbuktu who know of Nicola's case but was as lost as the rest of us as to his whereabouts.  No one had heard on the grapevine if he'd been kidnapped, which at that time was his best option.  The alternative didn't bear thinking about.

The months dragged on and on, P was occasionally in touch asking if I'd heard more, he would find things online and share them with me, but never a sighting of Nicola.  April 2020, P was suddenly in touch with this one day, I was elated as I'm sure he was! But this was the only update we had, 6th April 2020 Info Air Agadez with video footage taken around Kidal.

We presume these photos were taken near Kidal around the same time, where we can see some of the other hostages including Sophie Petronin.

So after hurriedly looking at documents last night I called P in Italy, forgetting his written English is incredible but he finds it difficult to speak.  He answered and I was screaming down the phone to him 'Do you have the documents of Nicola's release?' he didn't understand but could hear how excited I was.  We hung up, I drove like a mad woman another kilometre up the road urgently wanting to send the documents from the Malian government in French to him.  We were then both confused, it was 8th October 2020 last night, the document was giving the order for Nicola and Padre Luigi to be released on 6th October, so where were they?!  More calls to an EU security advisor who's attached to an Embassy in the sub-region.  He knew about the Franco-Swiss lady Sophie Petronin's release but was surprised when I told him Nicola was being released too in the deal.  Even more surprising, P broke the news to Nicola's wife who also had no idea of the news!

From @menastream on Twitter

After an hour of making a variety of calls to check if this was really true, we got word that an aircraft had landed in Bamako with the 4 hostages on board.  Absolutely elated I received video of Petronin, Cissé and one other disembarking, both P and I believed this 3rd one was indeed Nicola. 

This morning I received a photo from P, probably taken last night of Nicola in Bamako.

Unsure of the time he left Bamako on Friday 9th October 2020 but with Padre Luigi, they landed safely in Rome's Ciampino Airport around 1400h to be greeted by the Prime Minister and Foreign Minister of Italy.  Awful to have come out of captivity for so long and find they must wear masks now ... the world has changed!

Ode to an Irishman!

I've been lax of late, still not finished the whole Franki debacle but this weekend knocked me for six.  This isn't an ode, it's not a poem, but this is my blog and it's saying goodbye to a great Irishman.

Stephen Keenan died on Saturday in the Blue Hole, in Dahab, Egypt.  Steve was an amazing guy, we've kept in contact for 10 years after travelling together after a chance meeting.  He was open, honest, laid back and loyal to his friends.  He had a heart of gold, always looked for the positives, didn't take any stick from anyone and he loved the Dubs!

He had a wanderlust, like so many of us, it took him to South America then onto Africa which is where we met.  People have been asking me where we met, I nicknamed him BBB, short for Bissau Brothel Boy, we met in a brothel in the Caracol district of Bissau.  A pretty horrendous area of town, we later discovered that it was a hive of activity for crack cocaine and the evening wasn't the most calm I've had in my travels!  As described in my 2006/2007 trip to the region it wasn't as though we had much choice in Bissau but to sleep here and by pure chance Steve also decided to find a room at the same place, considering we'd not seen another European since Senegal, it was a surprise to meet him.  Steve took a photo of one of the rooms the following morning, it was awful and always said to me, his mother should never find out that he was forced to stay in this lousy hellhole, he also described it as a 'Gentleman's Club' hmmm!

Commandering a boat to the Bijagos with the Bubaque Chief of Police

I'm telling this story now because I don't want to forget some fun memories, often dangerous but Steve took the brunt of the danger.  We crossed the border into Guinea separately, we'd separated in the UNESCO protected Bijagos Islands, I headed back to Bissau, he went onto another island, Orango famous for it's saltwater hippos where he wanted to swim with them.  From Bissau I went onto the Guinea Conakry border with my Italian friend Gianni who also thought the world of Steve.  He was a few days behind us but we were in contact.  When we got to the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea there were strikes against President Conte, the Guinean President of that time.  The country had a major fuel crisis and things were getting desperate, I decided to head into Senegal as my flight left from Dakar, Gianni went south to Conakry to carry on eastbound, Steve was still somewhere in the west of Guinea.

Steve Keenan RIP - on Bubaque, he loved water, died doing what he loved

On arriving home in France I got frantic messages from Steve, he was near Donka Bridge area of Conakry and there was gunfire all around.  Power outages were getting worse and his mobile phone battery was getting lower but could I help him?  I rang the Irish Embassy in Paris, declaring his situation but it was a weekend, the consular official on duty was a saint, he rang the Foreign Affairs office in Dublin who subsequently called Steve to check on his safety and make arrangements for him.  Sunday morning, Steve was calmly having a cup of tea with the British Consul having made it across town in the chaos with the Consul waiting at his front door for him. He made it across into Sierra Leone the next morning, from memory.  An excerpt of an e-mail:

"In Freetown myself - got here last night after aother fucking shocker of a trip. Should of been 6 hours but due to a wreck of a car took 13! Left Conakry at 9 nd arrived here around 10 a broken man, covered in dust and smelling of diesel.. 

Sent you a text, not sure if you got it. Anyway I should be overjoyed and happy to be here but truthfully I'm not - I'm sad to have left Guinea behind and my heart aches thinking about all my friends I became so attached to while stuck in Conakry. That's one reason I hate staying in places for more that a few days - you can create relationships that become so hard to walk away from. Just hope things work out for them.

Anyway the reality is that I got out of there with my life and all my stuff, which might well of not been the case - so that, and all your help, I'm extremely grateful for. Thanks"

I got regular texts and e-mails from him telling me about his journey and experiences in Sierra Leone and horrendous journey down the coastal road in Liberia.  Then he got to Cote d'Ivoire, describing Abidjan as somewhere like Europe, reminded him of a few South American cities he had been to.  He was due to meet his father and brother in Bamako, they were flying in from Dublin and it was clear he was very excited about having some of his family with him.  He sent an e-mail to me protesting at the cost of a bus to Bamako at 40,000CFA (price has dropped considerably since then!) and was off to find other options.  He obviously went back to the bus company as I was getting text messages telling me how he had bought a seat but there was a big argument between the driver and the bus station chief that he couldn't understand and he kept being told to get off the bus.  Finally I got a text telling me he was en route for Bamako, but had to get through the northern part of Cote d'Ivoire which at that point was controlled by the Forces Nouvelles, the 'rebel' army.  His texts went dead for over 48hours, I was concerned but had no way of contacting him.  This an e-mail arrived a few days later explaining the silence after the few texts I'd received when he was free:

"I have just reached Mali, having made my way from Abidjan in Ivory coast to Bamako, Mali's capital. In doing so I had to cross the rebel controlled north of Ivory coast - this trip was without doubt my most perilous, taking 3 days and included 15 hours locked up in a cell with 14 other Ivorians and, thank God, one Dutchman.... The rebels imprisoned me.

Ivory coast has been in the grips of civil war since 2002. The south of the country is controlled by the government and the north by the rebels or "New Forces" as they call themselves. However in recent months things have calmed somewhat. I crossed into the south from Liberia about 2 weeks ago. Lots of military checkpoints and a few bribes but other than that it was alright. I asked a few people about crossing the rebel controlled north - almost all said it was fine that the war was almost over and I had nothing to worry about. So I decided to risk it and get the direct bus Abidjan - Bamako. We pulled out of Abidjan Saturday morning and headed north accompanied by  military vehicle. We reached the Gov/rebel divide at about 7. There was an army checkpoint, then UN checkpoint, then about 20k of no man's land, another UN checkpoint after which we entered Bouake, Ivory Coast's second largest city and headquarters of the rebels. We were all told to descend the bus and hand our Identity papers over. I was the only white guy. The rebels brought us into a large room where one of them stood up and addressed us all. He said who they were, their purpose and that there would be some payment necessary depending on the length of each passengers trip. I felt reasonably relaxed but then as he was speaking another rebel went through the ID papers, found mine, and put it aside indicated to someone that I was to be kept or something like that - I was standing too far away to hear. They began to give back the ID cards and the hall emptied till it was just myself standing in front of 6 seated rebels.

They asked me the purpose of my voyage, what I did, etc. One guy was quite aggressive and asked me how long I had been in the army - I said I was never in the army and that in Ireland it was not obligatory. he shrugged this off as if I was lying. They then summoned the bus driver and told him to carry on as I was to be held for more questioning. My heart sank, I so just wanted to get back on that bus. I pleaded with them and one of them said that the questioning wouldn't last long and that as the bus was stopping anyway for something to eat I will be back on it no worries. I had to get my bag off the bus. A pick up arrived with armed rebels in the back and PCO written on the side (Not sure what it stands for but it's seems to be their title). So I was driven off to the rebel headquarters, a large compound with big iron gate, and brought into an office where sat a slight man wearing a traditional Muslim robe. Behind him on the wall were photographs of various rebels and pictures of some guy called Bele Bele. Beside him was a chart with various lapel tags attached and their corresponding rank written alongside.

He began asking me similar questions as before, all was going well and I was hopeful I'd be back on the bus. I was devastated when he put my passport in his pocket and said I was to be kept there until he got clearance I could pass from "Le Chef". I had to leave all my belongings in the office for inspection. I also had to count all my money and hand it over. He wrote down the quantity and gave me a receipt assuring me I would get it all back. I was allowed keep some small change. I was then marched out into the main yard where a traditional style hut stood - it had a TV inside being watched by 3 dozing rebels and a white man! - I couldn't believe it, I hadn't seen a white person since Abidjan. Also he was a young and looked like a traveller. He was told to come out and then the 2 of us were brought to the back of the compound to a building with an iron gate and people lying around inside, it was a small prison. The rebel brought us inside and over to a vacant corner and told us we were to sleep there, and that he would come for us in the morning. I couldn't believe it - it was Paddy's day, and there I was lying in a cell...

My white companion was a guy called Ernest from Rotterdam, he had made his way to Bouake from Bamako hoping to visit the Medicin Sans Frontiers group stationed there. He was a nurse and was interested in working for them. I was so happy he was there, we kept to ourselves and were generally left alone. The cell was a large L shaped room with 3 smaller cells attached. These small cells were packed - about 15 people in each. In our own big cell I counted 14. Ernest luckily had taken his sleeping bag out of his bag. So we lay on that and I actually managed to get some sleep.

  At sunrise all were up including myself staring out through the bars waiting for someone to come take me out and tell me all is well. Across the far end of the compound I spotted the guy who had takin us into the cell, but I never saw him again. Time rolled on, every hour feeling like 10. We weren't fed, nobody was - they had people come, relatives and friends, with food. Eventually around 11 we decided to ask for a coffee and some bread. One of the guys, a prisoner from Guinea, was allowed leave the compound to purchase food. He came back with 2 bread rolls and 2 cups of coffee, the jailer accompanied he him and said we could eat outside. We were out!, it felt so good to be out of that cell. We sat under a tree for about an hour, then someone from across the compound beckoned us. Great I thought, but my heart sank when he indicated they only wanted to talk to Ernest. So I was alone, but they left me under the tree and thankfully not back into the cell. Ernest was walked to an office building about 500 meters away. He went in the door with 2 men in front and 3 behind him. He must of been in for about 40 minutes, I was getting worried. He came back out looking drained. He told me they asked the same questions over and over. They seemed sure he had a military purpose or something. They were more suspicious of him than I as he had a GPS with him and had a Dutch Army issued backpack. My questioning wasn't so bad, after a while they did believe that all I wanted to do was go to Mali. Ernest got some more hassle until he eventually agreed to leave along with myself. We were free. They put us in a bus along with another rebel to accompany us to the border.

I got off the bus at a town near the border as the bus was going to Burkina. I bid my cell mate goodbye and waited for a bus to Mali -  I was still in rebel country and so wanted to leave - about 2 hours later, 11pm a bus came. It drove for about an hour then stopped at a checkpoint. The rebels left me alone but we were told we were to stay there for the night. We slept on the side of the road and at about 6am we headed off again. Soon in the distance, through the morning Harmattan haze I spotted a Malian flag, the border. I never saw any more rebels. Phew."

Just over a year later, I went to Bouake as an Irishwoman, it was still controlled by the Forces Nouvelles but they weren't too worried about my presence.  I asked around about an Irishman that had been imprisoned a year earlier, they all knew about him, referred to him as my 'comrade' and were confused as to why he'd been imprisoned.  Steve had told me at the time they believed he was a spy ... for who?  The Irish government???!!!  The border town he was taken to was Ouanlangoudou, I remember the text message asking me if I could pronounce it ... I can now!!!  It was good to be there on 30th December in Franki

Steve said he'd always like to return to Cote d'Ivoire, I always hoped he would one day ... he sent a good few texts and e-mails as he made his way through West Africa, adored Nigeria, went up the Congo on barges with his backpack, loved Uganda, Kenya then found Dahab, Egypt where he's been living for the past 8 years and very sadly lost his life on Saturday.  He's had tributes pouring in on an international basis.  Some lovely photos here of the guy who always went home to see the Dubs play at Croke Park where on 5th August there will be a round of applause in his memory during a match at the 39th minute, he died too young at 39 but doing something he loved, a small consolation! Steve, a true hero in various press reports

RIP Steve, you're missed by so so many of us who had the pleasure to meet you!

Final border

Franki at The Sleeping Camel

A restful night at The Sleeping Camel I got up to have a warm shower and coffee.  Phil was already working and hoping to finally introduce me to his wife and new son. Sitting, sipping endless cups of coffee with him and Jeff, a UN aviation consultant, we chatted for what seemed like hours.  I was getting more than aware that time was marching on and I should be hitting the road south.

The aim was to get into Cote d'Ivoire today, it was Friday 30th December 2016 and I could see my goal of spending New Years Eve in Yamoussoukro with friends being accomplished!  I had to unfortunately bid goodbye though, but not before Phil refused to let me pay my bill, too kind of him!  I had missed meeting Bintou and Andre who I hope I'll meet in the near future.  I drove back out onto the main road to find someone to check the tyre pressure.

Getting out of Bamako was straightforward, I knew the road well as far south as Ouelessebougou and once out of the chaos of Bamako and nearby dormitory towns, the road was smooth sailing. In  Ouelessebougou it was obviously market day, driving through teems of people along the road selling their wares.  After Bougouni the road was quieter until eventually I pulled into Sikasso without stopping, covering 368km by around 1.30pm, I was happy with our progress. I had ideally wanted to go to the bus station and talk to people there about children being trafficked southbound, but as Sikasso had witnessed a fairly recent AQIM attack, I needed to find a bed tonight during daylight hours so dropped the idea.  Found a lovely service station in Sikasso, bought a few bits to eat, had a coffee and refuelled Franki.  

The road from Sikasso to the border was in relatively good shape but the relentless re-surfacing caused a few problems and it had to be treated with a little more respect than the one from Bougouni.  I sent a text to my friend PC in Yamoussoukro to ask him for some Ivorian phone credit on one of my Ivorian numbers just to be ready.  Reaching the border at about 4pm, it was a painless and straightforward process to exit Mali apart from dodging around trucks to find the correct offices.  I was out of Mali, I was finally heading into Cote d'Ivoire, I surprised myself by finding tears running down my face.  I was back in the most beautiful country after 4 months away, a country I seem to have adopted over the years!!!

The Ivorian border started with the police.  I had a grumpy officer who sent me back to Franki to get her documents too; desperate to find something out of place he finally grunted and stamped my passport! The rope barrier was raised as the passenger door was suddenly opened, another officer jumped into the passenger seat, I asked him what he was doing and was told that he was coming to Abengourou with me!  I managed to extract myself from that situation and drove onto customs at Pogo which was a kilometre or so ahead, which is where the trouble started.  

Heading into the customs office they told me I could have a 'vignette touristique' as I didn't have a carnet but this would cost 32,000CFA or 50€.  I laughed at him and told him that I knew they were free, he wasn't laughing, I knew I had a battle on my hands.  I flatly refused to pay, told him it was just a corrupt way of getting cash out of 'la blanche' and a real shame for tourism for Cote d'Ivoire.  He still wasn't budging, so I offered to call a senior police officer and friend ... he thought I was bluffing, I wasn't!  Slightly bemused he took the phone from me and my friend told him that he wanted to speak to his chief, he disappeared into the chief's office for a few minutes, returned and handed me the phone.  I thanked my friend profusely and watched my vignette touristique being typed up!  Grinning from ear to ear, I jumped back into Franki and headed as quickly as possible at about 5.45pm towards Ouangolodougou, known as just Ouangolo (/wangolo/)

The road for the first 86km in Cote d'Ivoire was horrendous.  Pot-holed and difficult; I wasn't happy about being near the border in the dark and know that this road is often ambushed by 'coupeurs de route' at night.  I pressed on as fast as was safe to do so before finally reaching Ouangolo about 2hours after leaving Pogo.  Getting into town 557km after leaving Bamako, there wasn't anywhere obvious to sleep, I found a young couple getting on a jakarta and stopped to ask for ideas of where to stay.  Stephane told me to follow him, he took me to what seemed to be a nice hotel but I wouldn't be able to park Franki inside and the rooms were out of my budget, I asked him if he knew of another.  He told me he would drop his girlfriend who ran a fish stall at a maquis then take me across town.  We finally ended up at a great little place with rooms at 4,000CFA, I then asked him about a nearby maquis to go and eat at; there wasn't anything but he offered to go and get me some fish from his girlfriend.  Very happily esconced near the hotel with a drink, he came back with the fish which is when I got the news that my friend's father had died, someone I held in very high esteem.  Tears poured down my face, poor Stephane really didn't understand what had gone wrong ... I managed to explain, apologise and pull myself together, we finished the fish together, he headed home to his gendarme father and I had a sound night's sleep!

Ouangolodougou - Arrived from Bamako, destination: Yamoussoukro 

Bamako bound

I didn't sleep well, at around 2am someone was crawling around Franki.  I woke up and realised there was a shadow in the dark in this supposedly guarded car park at Relais de Kedougou.  I crept into the front seat, started her up and made a few manoeuvres, eventually parking in front of the main gate to the hotel in the hope that the sleeping watchman would wake up and move me.  It never happened, I went back to sleep waking at around 0630.  I got dressed and went out to carry out the morning checks, the oil and water were ok, but the passenger side front tyre looked a little flat.  I drove into town to a petrol station to get air into the tyre and to refuel.  A few minutes later a minibus driver arrived and had a look for me, declaring I had a puncture.  He jumped in with me and we drove across town to someone he used to get the puncture fixed.  About 15minutes later, 1,000CFA of work I was able to set off east.  Bamako was my goal today!

First flat tyre

The culprit

I drove east for 112km to the border just east of Saraya, the majority of the road was in good shape.  The Senegalese immigration post was very interested by my passport with an array of old West African entry and exit stamps, they were very friendly and one asked if he could continue the journey to Cote d'Ivoire with me.  I continued on initially to Senegalese customs solo, then to the Malian border at Moussala.  The Malian border post was very friendly and sent me up the road to customs, no money had exchanged hands.  I got to customs and the officer declared I was his third wife ... then went into a meeting with his boss leaving me in his office waiting, when I would have rather been on the road to Bamako.

Brilliant synopsis of mileage at the Seneglese border post!

Franki at the Malian border post

After waiting 30 minutes I went off to find my new 'husband' with his boss.  They both apologised and he came back with me to finish off my paperwork and the official 5,000CFA transit payment with a receipt.  I was free to go BUT I had to return to the border post 5km away to get this paperwork stamped by the police who had stamped my passport.  I set off from the border for a second time without any dramas and started to look for a coffee stop!  After several kilometres I reached Kenieba and pulled up outside a big sign proclaiming to be an 'Orange' shop.  I jumped out ready to find a SIM card for Mali and ordered a coffee with Amadou, the coffee barista that my friend in Bamako Phil had met a few weeks later.  The Orange shop hadn't yet been completely furnished so I sent some boys into the market to find me a SIM card whilst I looked for change to buy Amadou's coffee.

I didn't have any small change ...

This was a disaster ...

I couldn't buy coffee ...

The man next to me on the bench was selling jewellery, he realised my predicament and told Amadou in Bambara, a local language, to serve me a coffee.  Suddenly there was a cup in front of me, I looked at Amadou in amazement, my new friend next to me said 'on est ensemble' an expression I heard 18 months earlier when in Bamako; essentially meaning 'we're all in this together' against AQIM.  It cost next to nothing in western terms but meant so much to me, plus this new friend's friendliness wanting to help a complete stranger who was desperate for coffee.  I will be forever grateful.

Around Kenieba

Somewhere a few kilometres outside Kenieba

Scenery before Kita

Somewhere along this route I'd called a friend, Cheik and then Phil, my American friend who runs the Sleeping Camel in Bamako I'd asked him if he'd seen Oleg, the Russian biker, he wasn't sure if Oleg had arrived. By the time I got to Kita, I was hungry and exhausted it had been a long but relatively straightforward road.  Unfortunately it was after 2pm when I reached Kita so after stopping at a maquis, I discovered there wasn't anything left to eat.  I had a drink and got back on the road.  By the time we reached Kati on the edge of Bamako, Franki's radio speakers seemed to be exhausted; suddenly only one speaker was working.  Kati was also an area the Malian branch of AQIM had carried out an attack a few weeks earlier.  I wanted to get on into Bamako so carried on regardless getting fuzzy sounds out of the remaining one!

Driving down the hairpin bends from Kati into Bamako I went past a police post.  Suddenly I heard a whistle and had to pull up.  The young police officer wasn't amused he had to chase after me down the hill but I refused to reverse Franki in the onslaught of traffic that was descending.  He realised that I'd just crossed the border earlier that day so let me go, I wasn't amused, I needed to be at Phil's by nightfall.

Kita outside the maquis

Finally I got into central Bamako 567km completed but I had to contend with the jakartas (49cc scooters) which were abundant in the traffic and it was dangerous negotiating a path around them.  Whilst in the midst of all this traffic at dusk, Phil called me to find out where I was, I couldn't exactly tell him but he was happy I was somewhere in town.  I managed to find my way to the bridge based on old knowledge of the city and drove over it unsure where exactly the Sleeping Camel was, but knowing it was close to the River Niger.  At the lights I turned left into a road that was heavily guarded.  Eventually I found myself outside the unmarked gates and called Phil declaring that I thought I was on his doorstep.  Sure enough I was, I drove in, Franki took out one of his young trees with her roofrack but I parked squarely against the wall.  Jumping out I got a massive welcome from Phil and Oleg, the Russian biker who indeed had made it to Bamako for his Nigerian visa!  I was imagining that Christophe would have been annoyed that I'd made it so quickly, he could have come with me and flown home from Bamako!

It was a long night, between catching up with Phil, Oleg's travels and Jeff, an aviation consultant from the Netherlands before I finally found my bed in the back of Franki again!

Mugshot of the famous Phil, aka Sleeping Camel partner!

Bumping east!

It was quick and easy to pack up after a night on the banks of the River Saloum on the eastern edge of Kaolack.  We got back on the main road heading east, Christophe was still coming with me but unsure where he would turn back, but this was sadly his final day.  I had heard from Oleg, the Russian biker who was sending google map locations via WhatsApp as to where he had been camping, he was probably 250km ahead of us!  I had 511km to complete to enable me to stop in Kedougou for the evening, we stopped a few kilometres down the road in Birkelane for breakfast next to the Mairie (town hall).  Continuing on, we came across a bus that had recently crashed, it was on it's side, burnt out and still smouldering, another reason I don't travel at night!  The following village two large trucks had crashed head on, we both thought of Pietr and Marius who were reliant on truck drivers to give them a lift, luckily they weren't in this smash!  The road was in a good state of repair, the vehicles were often not so safe!  

Another coffee break

We continued on, Christophe was debating whether to stay in Tambacounda, which is a large town and gateway to the Niokolo Koba National Park.  A small minibus full of toubab tourists kept overtaking us, we were surprised they didn't seem to stop to show the tourists the sights en route.  Eventually we got to Tambacounda and refuelled on the eastern edge of town having tried to find somewhere for lunch.  Christophe still wanted to continue, so I suggested we get to Wassadougou and have lunch, about 60km further on, I'd stayed here years ago on my way back from Guinea and the Fongolimbi border crossing with a Spanish man who owned a campement.  

Really into baobab country

We entered Wassadougou at speed and almost had a nasty meeting with the bridge which shocked us both with Christophe at the wheel.  Having crossed the bridge I knew we'd gone too far, so we turned around to find Francisco's campement just off the main road.  We spoke to a man walking out of the road that led to Francisco's place, he confirmed that it had been closed for a few years.  We drove back into the village and followed the signs to Campement Hotel Wassadou which was a few kilometres through the bush, to the most stunning site on the banks of the Gambia River.

A group of German tourists had just arrived and were settling in.  We went into the restaurant to be told there wasn't anything to eat, they had only catered for this group!  We ordered a drink and were given a bowl full of nuts, this was the end of the road for Christophe, he had decided to get transport back towards Dakar from the village.  It was a sombre half hour talking about my drive to Kedougou and his accommodation options in Tambacounda where he finally spent the night.

Views from Campement Hotel Wassadou

We got back to the village and I noticed a minibus loading, calling out to the driver to ask if there was a spare seat, Christophe was suddenly dispatched.  It was a quick, brutal and difficult goodbye but probably better that way, wished each other luck, gave each other a big hug whilst they loaded his bag and he got on. I'll admit to having a few tears to see him go, he had truly been the most amazing traveller and we had completed thousands of kilometres together on brilliant terms.  We're still in touch by phone and both wanting to do the trip again!

Solo ... I started Franki, pulled myself together and started to drive out of Wassadougou.  I got 300m and was stopped by a young police officer, I couldn't believe it.  He was rather unfriendly and kept insisting I get out of Franki which I refused to do, the doors were locked and I asked him what he wanted.  Eventually it transpired that the man we had asked about Francisco and his campement was owed money by Francisco, the two of them decided I was bound to pay the man.  I was obviously a friend of Francisco and should settle the financial matter.  I wasn't having any of it, I made it clear I had met Francisco whilst hitchhiking from Kedougou towards Dakar, he had offered me a lift then a room at his campement years ago.  I had no other contact with him, the argument continued for 30 minutes or so, I was hoping Christophe had maybe seen me parked on the side of the road with the policeman but he had long gone!  Eventually I was allowed to continue onto Kedougou 173km away.  It was already after 2pm and I wanted to be there by dark, little did I know what I was about to encounter!

Christophe's transport west

Nids d'Elephants ... the most horrendous piece of road for 90km, this was a relatively good stretch!

Only 8km from Wassadougou I found roadworks, red dust found its way into everything, this continued for 30km. It was gruelling and I could help but thinking that Christophe had done the right thing to leave me at Wassadougou.  I turned the music up, sang along (Christophe used to whistle badly but he hadn't heard my singing which is always badly out of tune) and got on with the job of driving.  I entered the Niokolo Koba National Park which is split by this main road, and hoped to see the end soon.  Coming across a small two door car that had stopped in the opposite direction with a French lady in her fifties or so and I presume her elderly mother I asked when it would end.  She grunted at me and said, it's horrendous, it gets worse.  I hoped she was just in a bad mood and this wouldn't be the case.   The roadworks finished, I was on tarmac again for all of maybe a kilometre then the potholes started, in French they're called 'nids de poules' or chicken nests.  These weren't chicken nests but elephant sized nests and horrendous, I was averaging 10kph it was taking all my concentration to drive Franki through the best bits of the road.  The worrying part was that there was very little traffic, for an hour or so I didn't come across any traffic at all.  The only signs of life I saw were a few warthogs and some policemen happily asleep under a tree midway through the park.   Putting a possible breakdown situation to the back of my head, I slowly crept forward to Kedougou wondering if I'd make it by dusk.  I later told my friend Phil in Bamako about this stretch of road, he took it a few weeks later on a jakarta scooter and also suffered!

120km later, I made it to Mako and tarmac.  I was so happy, so filthy, thirsty and very hungry.  I decided to press onto Kedougou anyway as it was only 43km away and I was worried the road would change again.  It didn't, it was a smooth ride!  On the edge of Mako I noticed a lot of small boys, between maybe 8 and 15 years old all covered in mud.  I'd heard that this region has now turned into a mining goldfield with a lot of illegal and dangerous mines, the boys were obviously being exploited in the mines.  Walking along the side of the road, ragged clothes, barefoot and very muddy, life can't have been easy for them.  I crossed the Gambia River and pushed Franki eastbound.

Pulling into Kedougou, 512km from leaving Kaolack that morning I was elated to have made it. I drove around looking for somewhere to stay, I couldn't find the auberge I'd stayed in years ago.  Due to the mining activity, hotels were pricey, so I drove off to the 5* hotel in town, Relais de Kedougou and had a chat with the manager.  Negotiating him down from 5,000CFA, he agreed I could use a shower and stay in Franki in their car park for 2,000CFA or 3€.  The shower was pure bliss, the red earth was washed out of my hair, my ears and I scrubbed my very red face ... I felt normal once more.  I discovered the minibus that Christophe and I had seen earlier that day, it had been full of Spanish tourists who were staying at the hotel. Keeping to my agreement with the manager, I entered their restaurant, chose a table overlooking the river and thoroughly enjoyed a good meal.

It was Thursday 28th December, I was still on target to keep my promise to friends in Yamoussoukro, to spend New Years Eve with them ... but would I make it?

Gambia River crossing at Mako

River Gambia at Kedougou, from Relais de Kedougou

President's Public Holiday

Whilst I spent a comfortable night sleeping in Franki, Christophe decided he wanted to use his hammock.  We both had a good night's sleep after the trials of getting over the border.  Zebrabar had good clean shower facilities but with cold water, the outside temperature wasn't all at warm at 0630 it made for a very chilly shower!

Coffee made and drunk, we were ready to depart.  Christophe got behind the wheel but Franki had managed to get her front tyres in some deep sand, probably due to parking in the dark!  Oleg the Russian biker, a Czech overlander and some others came to our rescue and pushed her out of the sand, we were off.  Aiming to be in Dakar as quickly as possible so that I could apply for a Malian visa hopefully in the same day.   Sadly Christophe had decided that we wouldn't make Bamako in time, he needed to return to France for his business in the early New Year and started looking for flights from Dakar to Marseille.

Just a quick coffee to start the day off at Zebrabar, then en route for Dakar if we can get out of the sand!

Zebrabar's restaurant and bar area

And we're off, Dakar bound!

Mouit

We rejoined the main road a few kilometres from Mouit, a good surfaced road that was reasonably fast apart from the sleeping policemen on the edge of towns.  After an hour we stopped again to have another coffee from a roadside table.  The traffic was heavy the whole way to Dakar until we got on the new autoroute.  We were shocked by the price of the tolls on the autoroute of which there were many, every few kilometres!

Duck transport!

Senegal's expensive new autoroute for the new airport

Finally we got into central Dakar, 243km later, I messed up on directing Christophe to Fann, a suburb on the Corniche where the Malian Embassy was located, we got off the autoroute too far into town.  We ended up in Plateau, the CBD and had to get out of some crazy traffic to join the Corniche and head up the other side of the peninsula, it was lunchtime so the Embassy would be closed.  Ending up in Mamelles another suburb, where I knew of a few places for lunch, we found a Lebanese restaurant with a very friendly Lebanese owner who changed money for us.  Unfortunately he was also the bearer of bad news, today, 26th December 2016 was a public holiday!  The President had decreed the night before that it should be a holiday as the Christians in Senegal didn't get a holiday for Christmas as it fell on a Sunday.  We were NOT impressed with this.  Finishing lunch we decided to return to Fann and the Embassy to see if they were closed; they were!  Our only option was to chill out for the rest of the day and unfortunately find accomodation for the night, it gave me a chance to show Christophe some of the sights of Dakar too.  Over the last 12 years or so that I've known the city, each time I return it has grown, been modernised and upgraded it's roads, not to mention the outrageously expensive statue that sits on a hill near Ouakam.

I decided that we should go and try ViaVia Auberge in Yoff, somewhere I had stayed before several years ago on my return from Guinea Conakry.  Christophe went in to see if they had room, luckily they did, we could also park Franki down a side street.  This meant taking the bikes and wheelchair off the roof and finding room in Franki to store them or they would vanish overnight despite a sturdy chain and padlock.  Christophe was amazing at reorganising the little space we had in the back and we got it all in.  Our work for the day now over, we decided to head down to the beach and chill out at a little bar.  On our way back to ViaVia we found some wonderful street food and sat enjoying the meal watching the world and his wife wander past us, before heading back to the auberge to sleep.

Yoff, Dakar

ViaVia Auberge, Yoff

Beach at Yoff

18,366 Kilometres by Road

If you're afraid of flying, getting home to see Mum in Nigeria when you live in the UK, can't be easy!

A year ago I was contacted by Chinedu for help and advice about a trip to Nigeria from the East Midlands, UK.  I was a bit confused by the situation, here I was telling a Nigerian how to get home, but he'd never been home or attempted a long overland journey!  There were so many questions, particularly in regards to being fearful of completing the trip; however many times I promised him he would love it, he was convinced he was about to travel to hell.



He made the trip, had some wonderful experiences, met a lot of people, travelled many thousands of kilometres and finally made it home, taking scrupulous notes along the way!

The result is a wonderful book of his experiences, the reality of obtaining visas, dealing with transport and having the time of his life.  He didn't just go to Nigeria by road but he returned by road too!

I've never plugged a product on this blog, but Chinedu deserves as many sales as he can get, it's on Kindle as well as a beautiful paperback copy that's sitting proudly in front of me!

https://www.amazon.com/18-366-Kilometres-Road-Adventure-ebook/dp/B01M8MB3J9

Proud to have been able to help him, hoping to see him on a trip south soon!